


Corruption Runs Deep

by Ceirel



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: "mild" accounts of the aftermath of using the Ring, Alternate Ending, M/M, Manipulation, for lack of better words, mentions of Noctis here and there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-02 08:15:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13314132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceirel/pseuds/Ceirel
Summary: It truly never is a good thing when Ardyn finds himself a new toy.





	1. new unwanted beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> I can't express enough love for dragging me into this pair because I had to pause everything to write this. also a late new year's surprise gift!

Ardyn sits at the Insomnian throne with a leg draped over the other, slightly tilted to the side with an elbow propped on the arm rest. The other hand holds a wine glass filled to the brim. He sits and waits, hardly any sign of impatience ruining his worn features. Every so often, he will twirl his occupied hand, threatening to spill the glimmering liquid.

The only expression on his face for the moment pertains to excitement: a lopsided smirk.

He has all the time in the world, so to break his new toy too quickly would be distasteful. Amber hues finally fall upon the wheezing man spread over shattered glossy flooring.

He burns such a bright orange to the immortal, it almost hurts to look at him. The tendrils that stem at the finger spread over his body like a plague. It lashed out, claiming his arm and encompassing most of his neck, over the jawline and sinking into his cheek. Through tattered clothing, Ardyn can discern how much of his torso has been damaged.

The man dipping his foot into death’s domain, the man struggling to continue living for his prince.

His skin continues to crumble; embers parting and fluttering from his body to instead dance with the wind. Even a simple exhale - no matter how pained, no matter how short - would exhibit the discharge of ash. The plentiful resource becomes precious to the man struggling to simply breathe, nigh unobtainable.

Ardyn relishes the sight.  

He finally rises and moves leisurely; the click of his heels will ring only after a prolonged amount of time. The dying male has Ardyn’s full attention, albeit unknown to him, much like everything else in his surrounding. Why he is in the _Citadel_ in the first place is a thought for later, should he live.  

There is no _click_ , there is no whispering wind. Not a sound is known to him other than a disorientating buzz set deep within the cranium.

His senses are frayed; damaged by the usage of the Ring. Only a shadow is known to him through eyes barely parted.

Is someone there to help him? Is someone speaking to him?

He can only imagine. The hand that has yet to endure the same damage twitches, digits stretching outwards with much, _much_ pain; a breathless groan accompanying.

He wants someone to be there.

With an exaggerated flourish, he squats down and the fabric of his coat pools by his feet. Ardyn hums quietly to himself, hands trailing and exploring the Glaive’s body. Small streaks of soot stain the limbs, earning a frown from the immortal. His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth, evidently displeased by how much of the man was reduced to ash.

“What a pretty little thing. Such a shame the Ring is so unrelenting,” Ardyn murmurs. He catches the movement from the corner of his eye and decides to entertain the other. The tips of his fingers brush over the open palm and were it a functional hand, he would have waited to watch the response. Knuckles graze the side of his head but Nyx can’t respond in any possible form.

It becomes an ordeal to keep his eyes open, even if barely in the first place.

Soft, quiet chitters replace the buzz. Like imaginary crickets birthed inside his mind. He can feel something crawling beneath his skin but strength has long since vanished. He accepts it as his passing, yet he lingers.

He continues living, continues breathing.

Was an astral taking pity upon him? Prolonging a life that no longer held a place on Eos?

The chitters grow in volume. From a handful to a myriad, it becomes aggravating. No longer a singular insect, but of unknown origins. He feels the need to scratch at his ears, into the canals and the against drums to stop the tiny vibrations. No more is the crawling present. Instead something _slithers_. Intangible claws jab at his muscles as it travels, eliciting broken gasps. Something moist touches his skin and his body wants to move accordingly. It wants to jerk away.

It isn’t a constant splattering against his body, it is slow and sparse. One droplet clings to his flesh and trails down the side of the forearm’s remnants. He cannot tell that it is not a regular liquid. A gradual movement; the texture resembling sludge.

Dark as dusk; infiltrating the broken husk. It seeps into the cracks where his skin should be, corroding his blood and muscle. He slips further and further from death’s grasp, and into one unknown to him. Beyond death’s doors, thrust upon a plain of twisted incorrigible malign. Of wilted flora and decayed bark. Of a monochrome scheme.

The transition is terrifying.  

Perhaps he will prefer taking a step into the afterlife rather than live a life that is no longer meant to be his, even if he is no longer allowed to see the prince.

He feels at ease, though only very slightly, at the thought of Noctis. He cannot help but wonder where he was now, how he was doing. Whether he was smiling, whether he was in high spirits.

The news of Insomnia’s fall will no doubt soon reach him, but Nyx wishes that the smile he left with remains intact. The smile drawn out _by_ Nyx, _for_ Nyx. He wants to shed a tear for the fact that he will never see it again. Not filled with life, at least. Not in that same regard. He cannot bring about a second one. But he can do nothing to retrieve it from the past, nor build it anew.

Nothing is available to him other than to writhe in place and scream his lungs out when blackened lips meet his.

  



	2. drip drop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Oracle isn't all that she appears to be to Nyx.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> taking https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xYqb-ht2gyY for inspiration here, like with the first chapter :')

The next few days come as a blur to the Glaive. Lower eyelids are stuck on a constant twitch; impossible to keep widened at any given point, impossible to keep closed for long. Contained in a small cell, his time is only spent laying on the floor with his back facing the bars. Muscles feel solidified and the pain that comes with any beginning or attempt at a gesture is simply not worth taking. Even as simple as moving onto his back, the numerous twinges are too much to endure.

He relents at times; scarred back pressed upon the dirt riddled floor. When he no longer cares and the unsettling amount of time gone _without_ pain begins to nag at him. When he’s left with an inexorable stream of whispers invading his mind.

Nyx loses both breath and strength alike through such small movements. The sensation rivals being shackled; bound to the metallic confines and with a price to pay. He hisses and wails but nothing ever comes about it. Only a spoonful of an ever rising mountain is removed and his cries, his pleas, his tears are payment.

Nyx has never felt so lethargic and _useless_.

Ardyn hasn’t visited since he was first thrown into the cell. He assumes he slept soundly on the journey, for not a fragment of a memory surfaces when he tries to recall how he got to this point. The Citadel, he recalls. The battle prior, as well. But beyond that, it is a reinforced dam.  

Time is spent devoted to thinking of Lunafreya. Of Noctis. Of Libertus, Crowe, Pelna. Of Regis and Drautos.

Of Ardyn.

Every thought encompasses the first three. Even though he does not know where _he_ is, where _they_ are, it does not stop him from fretting over them. Even now, though he lays on a floor with blackened wounds, he cares only for them. His oldest and closest friend, his prince and the Oracle.  

_Give me a sign, Astrals. Let me know they’re okay._

His ears perk at the sound of heels echoing in the long hallway he was abandoned in. With a grunt and many feeble clawings at the hardened floor, he makes an attempt to now face the darkness.

She’s blinding; a light in the dark, but most of all, _she’s here._

A mix of emotions twines inside of him. On one hand, he doesn’t want her to see him in such a state. The other wants to reach out and hold her hand; he wants just a few words of comfort that’ll help him through this.

Only a few to give him enough strength to cling. He doesn’t want to drown in her hope.

He breathes a sigh of relief, broken blue gaze settling on her features past the bars. She looks as sublime as she did at the party. The Glaive puts himself through hell to _try_ and seat himself, body trembling with such visible strain. Ripples upon ripples upon ripples of reverberating pain. It looks more an attempt at a pushup than anything else. Through many terse expletives and cut off groans, he lowers his chest to the ground and turns his head enough that a single eye is able to view her.

She doesn’t look pleased in the slightest.  She doesn’t offer a hand. She doesn’t offer any kind words, any _shred_ of sympathy.

She simply looks down at him.

He looks _pathetic._

The heart plunges into murky depths. He doesn’t need to see anything more, for his mind is already twisting the image of the Oracle. Malice taints his memories, droplet by droplet.

No more is there a brave woman before him, unafraid of speaking her mind, ready to throw her life down for the sake of the prince, for the sake of the world. To usher in an age of Light.

There’s only a woman who tends to herself. He had done his job, and _this_ is his payment.

Fingertips rake across the flooring and the wounded male drags himself as close as he possibly can to the wall. Dried blood coats the fingers; flesh and nail sundered. Like a wounded dog, he flees. He _wants_ to be out of sight.

Now?

Now, through the building amalgamation of noxious emotions, he begins to question his relationship with Noctis and the long, _long_ years he spent with Libertus.

He begins to question Ardyn, but not nearly in such a vicious regard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> insert the distorted version of 'hahaha. this sucks, man.' here because it's a definite mood right now


	3. between oracles & chancellors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nyx can feel himself drifting towards the latter, as the former no longer has his trust.

Lunafreya has yet to leave. Nyx feels an eternity pass whilst he seats himself in a corner. Veiled blue stare at the illuminated figure, scrutinizing. 

Abandoned in tight confines, the man has little to do other than ruminate. He has the time to consider what he could have done differently and  _ how _ . To consider each individual outcome and wonder if there was a way of safeguarding the future without his life being forfeit.

His emotions are rampant, hunted by poisonous intent.

Nyx is deprived of touch, of contact. The only source comes from a fleeting whisper, kindling the blackened fire inside of him. All that he knew, all that he loved is being painted an unmistakable ire-inducing shade and not a single cry against it can bring about any change. A looming cloud to tamper any emotional processing. 

The brilliant blue watching him is a constant fuel. 

She comes and goes for a while, but is never replaced by another. His talk with Noctis and Libertus has yet to come. He imagines it will be just as quiet, just as judgemental. 

Lunafreya is so familiar, yet so different. 

Now she kneels down, now she attempts to reach into the cage. A dainty hand slips past the bars with the index stretching out the furthest. She has since frowned and expressed regret. Murmuring words of apology, murmuring words that would have once moved Nyx. 

But now he sits and watches; a starved coeurl watching untouchable prey. 

It is not to say the Glaive has fully converted into a creature deprived of friends and lovers, more that his senses are being led astray. To the deep end of a pool, instead of wading through the shallow. The trust he once held for the woman before him was enough that he would have gladly given his life a hundred times over. Now that trust is a dried leaf; torn and scattered at the hands of malice. 

The tiny, nigh nonexistent handful of previous feelings struggle to stay afloat against the tides of venom. It is the sole reason he finds his body trembling with the need to inch closer. 

After much consideration, he indulges and shifts accordingly,  as what is the worst that could possibly happen to him? He wants to remember the warmth of another person. To remember the sensations affixed to the motion. 

The Oracle’s lips twitch and broaden at the sight of his advance. “I’m right here, Nyx,” comes the welcoming coo. 

Her words enter one ear and exit the other. He stares beyond her, to the consuming dark that waits at the end of the hallway; expecting someone else to appear. Rather, hoping. 

He wants contact, but no longer from her. 

Unable to lift his arms, he settles by pressing his cheek to the outstretched palm. He is met with all that he wanted prior to this engagement. What he once wanted when she was still his source of hope. 

The second palm caresses the other cheek with small, gentle brushes. It elicits a broken incomprehensible plea from the male. 

When the limbs begin to apple pressure, when they clasp and lock his visage into place, he stills. The added pressure births both red and purple alike in unmarred spaces. 

Nyx makes attempts at raising his hands to protest, eventually coming to grasp forearms with frantic strength. 

“You were such a good boy until now.” These words do not exit. The voice retains its dangerously smooth edge, but it only takes a blink for Nyx to see the figure before him vanish into thin air,  _ now _ replaced. 

“Poor, poor thing. Did you truly think she would come to see you? Did you think anyone would give a broken toy a second glance?”

The words press into his skin harder than Ardyn’s hold. 

Not only is the Chancellor correct, but he delivers the final blow to the creature in such fashion that he no longer has the need to try and retaliate. No longer has the need to look him in the eye with a dying flicker of defiance. 

Words cannot explain the tremendous satisfactory gain from breaking someone - more so one close to the chosen king. To snuff out that flame  _ himself _ . Deep rumbles escape Ardyn’s chest. 

Sparkling orange dart from one feature to another, inspecting the fresh coating of scars. The soot, the dirt, the tiny blotch of scourge on his body.  _ Something _ compels him to take pity. 

Ardyn relinquishes his hold and simply strokes Nyx’s cheeks. Rough tips meets scarred, uneven skin. 

“A beautiful pawn,” he whispers. “Wouldn’t you say that’s rather cruel of them to leave you like this? All alone in the dark, whilst they’re out in the world being free and with each other?” 

He’s not the slightest bit surprised when Nyx eventually nuzzles into his palms, reduced to a sobbing mess. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a note for myself to check over this when I'm home because I suddenly lose the ability to read at work

**Author's Note:**

> why don't I just Rip my own heart out like some sort of animal
> 
> maybe maybe daemon!Nyx or something along the lines, maybe maybe same treatment as Ravus, maybe maybe he gets a nice ending
> 
> lots of maybes :thinking: 
> 
> trying out present tense for now, if I feel bothered enough I'll change it back to past
> 
> thanks for reading!


End file.
